There was one thing that jumped out at her and actually made her smile, though she knew none of this was funny:
“One-sided conversations.”
When she called Jack and told him about that one, he said, “One-sided conversations? That sounds like half the kids we know. Heck, probably more than half.”
Cassie said, “There was also this thing about kids with Asperger’s sometimes being obsessed with unusual topics.”
Jack said, “That sounds like your whole team.”
“But honestly?” she said. “This is no joke. Kathleen and Nell? You know what they’re really obsessed with? Being good enough this season to get on television. No lie, Jack. They think that if they can do that, they’ll be halfway to being Kardashians.”
Jack wanted to know more about Sarah, what she’d been like at practice. Cassie told him about her standing in one place, and no eye contact, and running away when Cassie had tried to talk to her. But then Cassie told him about the catch she’d made, and how she’d turned and thrown the ball back in, even though she’d never played in a real softball game in her life, like she just instinctively knew that was the right thing to do. And then Cassie told him about what Sarah had been like when it was her turn to bat, how nervous she’d looked at the start, as if she’d known that everybody was watching her, how she’d swung and missed badly on the first few pitches Cassie’s dad had thrown to her.
After that, though, she’d proceeded to hit a line drive over third base, another one over first, hit a ball off the wall in right-center, and nearly took Chris Bennett’s head off with a shot right back up the middle.
“So she can really play?” Jack said.
“Yeah,” Cassie said.
“Did she pitch?”
“Oh yeah,” Cassie said.
“As fast as you?”
Cassie said, “I’m not going to dignify that with a response.”
“I don’t know what I was thinking,” Jack said.
Then he said, “If she’s as good as you say she is, then it should be no problem with the other girls, because she’ll just make your team better, right?”
“I just want everybody on the team to be nice to her.”
“Because she’s a good player, or because she’s a good person?” Jack said.
Cassie paused, because it was such a good question.
“Hopefully both,” she said.
“Listen, Cass,” Jack said, “it’s going to be like everything else. They’ll take their lead from you, like they do on the field. Because they know they have no chance to make it near Fenway without you.”
“You’re probably right.”
“I’m calling Teddy and Gus and telling them you told me I was right about something.”
“I said ‘probably.’ ”
“You’re probably overthinking this,” he said.
“Okay, what do you think about this—or overthink—is it going to work out?”
“Honestly? I have no clue. And no matter what you do, and how easy you try to make things for her, you can only play your own game. You can’t play hers.”
“Who says?” Cassie Bennett said.
FIVE
Sarah made the team.
All of the girls from last year’s team made it too, at least the ones who still lived in Walton. Two had moved away. But the best players were still around, Brooke behind the plate, Lizzie at third base, Allie at second, same as when they’d gone undefeated. Nell was still in right field, Kathleen in left. Greta Zahn had played center last season and had thought she was going to play center this season. But Cassie was sure that was going to change now that Sarah Milligan was on the team, which was going to be called the Red Sox. Sarah was a better fielder than Greta, a better batter. A better everything.
When they had their first practice after the team was set, the Tuesday after tryouts and four days before the season would officially begin, Sarah still didn’t seem to be more comfortable with her new teammates. It didn’t stop her, though, from making another spectacular catch during batting practice, this one on a ball that Brooke had hit, Sarah coming in on a sinking line drive and making a sliding, backhand play.
“She’s like a one-girl highlight film,” Cassie said to Greta.
They were both waiting to hit.
“Anybody can make plays in practice,” Greta said.
Greta was tall and blond. She was fast and had surprising power for someone as skinny as she was. But just from one tryout and the start of practice tonight, anybody could see she wasn’t the ballplayer that Sarah Milligan was, whether this was Sarah’s first time on a team or not.
“I have this feeling,” Cassie said to Greta, “that she’s going to be one of those players who does what my dad says we’re supposed to do: practices like she plays.”
“It sounds like you’re cool with her creepiness,” Greta said.
Cassie turned to her, leaning on her bat.
“Gonna give you a heads-up, Zahn,” Cassie said, smiling but not meaning it. “I wouldn’t let our coach—my dad—hear you calling Sarah creepy.”
“Would you feel better if I called her weird?”
“Not so much.”
“So you’re telling me you don’t think it’s going to be weird having her around?”
Cassie had always managed to get along with Greta, who was probably the smartest kid, boy or girl, in their grade at Walton Middle. But having known her since kindergarten, Cassie also knew that Greta was never going to get an A in being kind.
Cassie gave Greta her biggest smile now and said, “We’ve only known her for two days. What I think would be weird is not giving her a chance to fit in.”
And she walked up to the plate to get her swings.
Even though they’d only spent two days around Sarah, they all could see by now how much she liked routine. Really liked routine. It wasn’t just that she was always in the same spot in the outfield. When Sarah did speak to Cassie’s dad, she wanted to know what the batting order was for batting practice, exactly